


The Madonna

by emimuart



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Canon-Typical Behavior, Childbirth, F/M, Fake Character Death, France (Country), Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon Fix-It, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:47:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24411550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emimuart/pseuds/emimuart
Summary: Set many months after the events of the Opera House, our beloved characters’ story is not quite over as a new beginning sends them on a different path.Leroux-based
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Erik | Phantom of the Opera & The Persian, Raoul de Chagny & Christine Daaé, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine entrusts Raoul with a dangerous quest to find her Angel of Music who is believed to be dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,
> 
> This story will more or less follow the events of the book by Gaston Leroux, though it will also draw elements from other versions such as the Susan Kay book, all with a healthy sprinkling of my own imagination. 
> 
> This is my first work in this fandom so I will try my best to get everything right. 
> 
> So enjoy!

_Paris 1881_

This was a bad idea.  
He should have remained with her, his Christine, who needed him. No, she had maids to care for her and she had begged him to do this. Luckily for her, he had never met a bad idea that he did not immediately embrace like the dearest of friends.  
And so here he was, traipsing once more through the dingy darkness of the cursed cellars with only the lantern’s warm light to guide him. 

His heart pounded annoyingly in his ears, his arm began to ache from holding it at the level of his eyes as if he was prepared to fire a pistol, just as the Persian had insisted, and it was getting harder to stay focused.  
He had almost gotten trapped in here, and now he had come back on this fool’s errand. Sometimes Christine did have truly terrible ideas.

But who was he to deny her when she looked at him with pleading blue eyes? 

Or after so many hours of listening to her feverishly mutter _Holy angel, in Heaven blessed, My spirit longs with thee to rest!_ , he had finally given in.

She had pressed the key of the Rue Scribe entrance into his palm, entrusting him with it and sending him of on his quest like some victorious knight of old with his fair maid’s token. 

His carriage waited there above, still, and may do so forever.

Down and down he went, an endless spiraling descent into the pits, each noise made tenfold by the sheer silence of the damp earth, causing his hair to stand and his blood to course rapidly. He felt as he would be sick. Yet he held strong on his path, never straying from it, least the Shade or flaming headed rat-catcher find him. 

But he feared far more than those creatures who were but mere beasts, frightful to see but harmless if unprovoked. No, there was far worse spectres that lurked here under the Opera house, five stories below the level of the ground. It was his abode.  
Despite the many months that had passed since the faithful advertisement in the Époque, of which he kept a clipping in his desk drawer, the fear remained. 

One of the crafty tricks Satan plays was to guide a person safely on the wrong path. When your safety was the priority, you may be on the wrong path but may not know.  
However he tried his best to trust in her instructions.

Eventually the oppressive darkness lifted. Bluish light surrounded him, on the edge of a lake whose leaden waters stretched into the distance, into the darkness, lighting up the bank and there, a little boat was fastened to an iron ring on the wharf just as she had said. 

Clambering in, he settled himself on the red cushions, hooking his lantern to the front and then untied the rope that held it and seized the oars.

He rowed with a calm stroke, fearful of making anymore sound than necessary and inflicting the wrath of the siren who had dragged his brother down into the inky depths of the lake. 

Yet there was no singing whisper to be heard, all was silent except for the rhythmic splash as the oars entered and exited the water. 

Soon he was plunged into the dark again with only the small orange light to guide him as he rowed. 

With a thud and splash, the man-made shore collided with the boat. 

Every fibre of his being commanded him to turn and row and never come back to this dreadful place. But he had promised Christine and had already made it this far.  
There was no going back now.

Raoul climbed out with the upmost caution, picking up his lantern, he made his way towards where he expected the house to be, yet there was no lights of anyone living. Of course there wasn’t, nothing lived down here but ghosts. 

The well stood as the supposed headstone, the earth patiently waiting to swallow the one who so belonged to it.  
Shining his light towards it, gulping at the damp earth which was devoid of a corpse. 

Oh God. 

He was still alive. 

Backing away and turning to run, he was caught like rabbit in a snare, his guiding star falling to the ground and flickering out. 

Clawing at his neck, for in his shock, he had forgotten the cardinal rule of the cellars, _Always keep your hands at the level of your eyes!_

The infamous Punjab lasso dug into his pale skin as he gasped for breath. 

“Why little Vicomte, I wasn’t expecting you! Come to slay the dragon, have we?” His booming voice echoed throughout the cavern, as twin coals came into view. 

It really was Him. The Phantom of the Opera. Erik. His dastardly rival. The bastard wasn’t dead, or no more so than usual.  
At least he was wearing his mask, or he might actually be sick.

“Tell Erik why he shouldn’t kill you now?” 

“C-Chris-...” Raoul sputtered. 

“Speak now or forever hold your wist!” The Phantom chuckled. 

“Christine is sick.” 

“Christine is sick? After I entrusted her safety with you! You have failed her!” Can’t your fancy doctors heal her?” He snapped loosening the catgut just a little.

“They’ve tried everything, she gave birth to a baby boy three days ago. It was a difficult birth, the Doctor said she lost a lot of blood.”

His mind immediately whirled trying to think of way to heal her since her doctors were clearly all imbeciles. There was likely some Gypsy potion in his cabinet that would do the trick. 

Had it been that long?  
Nine months since he had last seen her? His beautiful Angel. Nine months since her marriage to the boy to which he had received no invitation. And now a baby, his little girl, a mother. The idea sat strangely with him, an uncomfortable feeling in his chest. 

“A baby boy...Well I guess congratulations are in order then, do send me an invite to the christening. And don’t forget this time,” Erik said with bitter mirth. 

“Still that doesn’t explain why you have entered my home without welcome.”

“Christine, she begged me to find you even if you were dead. She said I was to bury you in her place as she could not.” 

That was sweet. To know that she wanted to keep her promise even if she couldn’t do it herself.

“Well as you can see I’m no more dead than I was before.” 

He had fully intended on there being a body for her to bury, he just hadn’t gotten around to it. There was compositions to finish and affairs to arrange like where Ayesha would live when he was gone and whatnot. All those tedious tasks had kept him busy and only now did he realize just how many months had passed. He should have been dead long ago. But was that not the case of his entire existence? He should have never drawn his first breathe, let alone make it this far. Unfortunately he seemed to have an uncanny ability to escape Death. 

“Yes, so you must come with me to see her. Please, I beg of you. She, she may not make it through the week.” Raoul said looking at those burning eyes despite their scorching heat, he held steady.

“My schedule is rather full you know, lots of people need me, you know? But I suppose I could shift some things around since we are old friends...” He said, taking great satisfaction in how desperate the Vicomte, or should he say, Comte, looked. Like a young pup begging its master.

“Very well, I will accompany you above ground.” He sighed seemingly utterly bored when inside he wanted to jump for joy. 

To see his Christine just once when he had resigned himself to never do so again, would be of the greatest bliss. And of course he had to see to her health. 

“Thank you, sir, I cannot thank you enough.”

“I do not do this for your sake, but for hers, only for Christine’s.” 

“Yes of course. Would you mind?” Raoul said gesturing to the lasso which still hung loosely around his neck.

Erik nodded removing the lasso and tucking it back safely in his pocket before marching off to retrieve his outdoor wear and a beaten leather apothecary bag before heading towards the lake.

Without a word spoken, they took the boat back across the lake, walked the long journey back up and exited onto Rue Scribe where they got into the Comte’s Brougham and off they went. 

Through the hustle and bustle of the city they went, for of course they had chosen the most busy time to travel. Much like insects, the people moved like clockwork and at current moment, it was feeding time. At least he hadn’t had to deal with crowds, that would have been too much for his poor broken heart. 

The summer heat’s clung heavily to the air at that time of day, refusing to let the cooler weather which had already claimed the dawn and dusk, win. It was hard to believe the Autumn would there in but a matter of days.  
Leaving far beneath the earth, the weather also remained comfortably cool to downright freezing, so Erik was totally unprepared for the heat, dressed in his woolen fedora, cape and coat, thus began to perspire profusely, which was horribly uncomfortable, but at least he was dressed better than the boy who, in his pale clothing seemed to have attracted every speck of dust in the cellars. 

Eventually they left the busy city center for the peacefully greenery of the outskirts. 

So often traveling by cover of night, Erik missed the sight of sun high in the sky, the leaves casting dappled shadows across the carriage as they rode by and the pervasive song of cicadas and crickets filling the awkward silence. Far preferable to the scratching of rats and mice. 

Across from him, the foppish boy seemed to make a point of keeping his eyes trained on the passing scenery, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his linen jacket.  
Indeed he should be nervous. He had failed to fulfill his one wish, to keep her safe. Instead he had polluted her and now his little spawn had nearly killed her.  
His poor darling. He knew he shouldn’t have trusted the useless boy with a prize so delicate.

The Chagny castle soon came into view, a grand edifice of sandstone at the end of a topiary lined path, with large bay windows, it was meant as a monument to greatness of the line.  
Erik had built far better, though it still had its merits in its traditional lines.

Once the Brougham came to a stop, a footman opened the door and he followed the boy out and into the castle. 

“Monsieur Le Comte.” A man greeted giving a wary look to his employer’s companion.

“He is here to see Christine.” Raoul said not pausing as he headed up a large staircase. 

Erik followed, not exactly pleased with doing so, he much rather lead but it wasn’t as if he had any clue on where to go. 

The young comte lead him down a number of corridor before opening a door.

“Monsieur.” The maid said standing up from her seat by the bed.

“Lizette, how is she doing?”

“She awoke a few hours ago and was given some breakfast and medication as the Doctor ordered.” 

There exchange meant nothing to Erik, for all else had ceased to exist when he saw what lay in the bed.  
Christine. Her skin so pale as if she had been drained of all color, barely visible against the white bedding. It held a distinctly waxy quality that only came with illness, and her cheeks were hollow. Two dark circles so black and sunken, her eyes nearly resembled his own.  
Her hair, once a great mass of golden curls now stuck limply to her forehead.

She was certainly absent of the motherly glow that everyone raved about.

As he moved silently towards the bed, the maid stared at him with weary defense, as if she could stop him.

“Monsieur?” She said looking to him.

“Leave us, Lizette,” Raoul said and she did.

“I will leave you two alone, call for me if you need anything.” He said before he too left them and closed the door.

Erik didn’t grant him with a reply, his eyes fixed on his sick Angel. 

“My poor, poor Christine.” He whispered stopping a little from her bedside, for he dared not get any closer to her least his closeness do her more harm.

His words seemed to have stirred from her rest, her eyelids opening to look up at him tiredly, seemingly taking a moment to recognize him.

“Angel?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this first chapter!
> 
> The Chagny’s Castle is inspired by Château des Maisons which was designed by François Mansart, rather fitting, don’t you think? 
> 
> Please do feel free to leave a comment and kudos! 
> 
> Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine and Erik deal with their new beginning.

“Angel?”

For surely that was all he could be, or rather a Ghost since she somehow doubted that the Pearly Gates would open for someone like him. 

“Not quite my Dear, just Erik.”

“But you’re dead... have you come to take me away?” 

She had been expecting her beloved Papa to take her to Heaven, maybe her mother too, even though she could hardly remember her face.  
Her time drew near, no amount of hushed voices or leaving the room to speak in private could hide that fact from her. It was in the marrow of her bones. A freezing emptiness that was slowly spreading through her. Was this what he felt all the time?

“No, your boy brought me here.” He said placing his bag at the bottom of her bed along with hat and cape for the room was too warm.

Raoul. Yes, she remembered now, though it was a little hazy. She had sent him off to fulfill her promise. 

“Oh it really is you.” She said with a sigh of relief.

Three words.  
Erik is dead.  
Three dreadful words and she felt like she was a little girl all over again, mourning the loss of her father. How could one person live with so much grief in their heart?  
For months she had been inconsolable, not speaking or eating, despite how Raoul tried to coax her into taking just a few bites. What was the point when her Angel was gone? He had been her voice, her dearest Maestro. She would never sing again, and singing had been her life. Therefore she had no more life.  
Christine Daaé had ceased to be. 

And then came that faithful morning. Her maid, Lizette asked after her lack of rags for the past few months. That was when she knew.  
In the chaos that was that long ago night, a life had been created. A life that she now carried. She could not be so selfish as to let it perish from her own sorrow.

Little by little she had patched herself back together, a little cracked and mismatched but when had that ever mattered. She would live for the life she carried within her. Her very own little savior.

On the banks of the lake, across from the little house, she had told him as much, even though she thought him dead, perhaps his spirit still lingered and he had the right to know. 

“In the twisted flesh.” Erik said sardonically still not daring to come any nearer. 

She reached out for his gloved hand, the small gesture seemingly exhausting her. He tentatively bridged the gap, squeezing it lightly to which she smiled faintly.

The leather masked the scent of death and the cold that always seemed to linger on his skin, but what did trickle through felt like water in a desert. 

“I’ve missed you.” She said softly gazing up at him.

Erik was just as he had always been, maybe a tad thinner and grayer.  
Dressed as if for a funeral, which was a touch disconcerting in her condition, and so exceptionally tall and terribly thin, she would have to have the kitchens prepare him something hearty.  
He carried with him an air of shadowy danger that was near comical in the light and airy powder blue bedroom. 

His mask was black today, covering all but his sharp chin and his barely there lip. They were dry and tasted like the bitter Russian tea he so favored, with just a hint of lemon. 

A slight flush graced her desperately pale skin but it was only the fever rearing its ugly head again.

“Look in the crib, there’s someone you have to meet.” She smiled encouragingly glancing towards the cream bassinet a little way from the bed.

Erik nodded curtly, having no desire whatsoever to see the spawn she and the boy had created. He didn’t even bother to offer her the expected congratulatory words. He would really rather forget about the little demon’s existence altogether.

But he did as she bade for he would do anything for her. He would jump right out the bay widow to his left should she ask him to.

Peering down into the cradle which was a tasteful cream and pale blue, with poorly hidden disdain, for he wasn’t exactly a fan of infants, he looked at the little sprog. 

Not that he had anything particular against children. They were innocent, ignorant to world’s hardships or beliefs. But they had the unfortunate trait of being malleable, sponging up what surrounded them which was more often than not hate and fear, as was the way of life.  
The lucky few, who were surrounded by love, rare as it may be, grew to be kind and good, like a little Persian boy he knew so long ago. 

This child’s sole fault was being born of that silly noble, yet it was also part Christine so he would treat it accordingly. 

It was far thinner and smaller than any of the chubby rosy ones he had ever seen, with a shock of messy black hair. It was fine, nothing special but perfectly acceptable. 

“His name is Charles.”

She was reminded of her own Papa then, of his tales. How sometimes, the Angel of Music leans over the cradle... and that was how there were little prodigies who played the fiddle at six better than men of fifty. And now here her very own Angel of Music leaned over her son’s cradle. It was certain that he would be as gifted in music as his father. 

“Like my father.” He muttered softly, finding her choice of name rather bizarre. Should it not be named Raoul the Second or something along those lines? 

Straightening himself back up, he turned to look at his darling for he had no need to look at the child anymore. 

“Bring him to me.” She said holding out her shaking arms. 

His eyes imperceptibly widened for she couldn’t truly expect him to pick it up.

“Come Erik, he won’t bite you,” She teased playfully.

“Please Erik.” 

How could he say no to that? 

Sighing he bent to carefully scoop the baby up as he seen people do.  
The movement disturbed the baby and his eyes opened to reveal glowing golden like the sun itself, looking up at him in curiosity, eyes that echoed his own.

It couldn’t be.  
Well that was wrong, it could be, and it was.  
He was surprised his arms held steady at the shock of it all. Christine was unlikely to appreciate him dropping her baby.

Charles looked nothing like the boy and everything like himself, though thankfully he had inherited his mother’s button nose.  
In the time when the Daroga and the then Vicomte slept off the harrowing ordeal with a touch of laudanum, when she had accepted to be his wife. One brief moment in time had created such a perfect life. A baby boy. 

Past the initial curiosity of being woken up, Charles began to fuss, his face contorted as if he was about to begin crying. 

“He’s scared of Erik.” He said helplessly moving to Christine for help. 

It was him. It had to be. Even his own child was afraid of him and could not love him for himself. And rightly so. How could someone who was made of death from head to foot, care for a helpless infant? 

“No he isn’t. It’s your mask, I never liked it either, take it off.”

The sculpted black leather showed no emotion whatsoever which was terrible disturbing and unnatural. She could barely tell when he felt anything or if he even did so.

“So he can be even more terrified of my face? Erik would rather not traumatize him for life. Just take him now.” Erik said shaking his head with a chuckle.

Revealing his face had never ever gone well, Christine was a prime example of such. 

“He won’t be. You’re his father... He’ll know you. Trust me.” 

Speaking it made it real. The words made him feel nauseous but he did as she said, pulling his mask off while he balanced the baby in one arm, expecting the fearful wailing to start. And then Christine would scream in horror, realizing her mistake and snatch her son from his arms and send him away, again, forever. 

But no screams came and Erik opened eyes he didn’t even know he had closed.  
Charles’s eyes were large with surprise and his tiny brows pulled in confusion, something Christine did, after all someone taking off their face was rather confusing, and then he was grinning and gurgling happily. 

His mouth spilt into a likely horrifying grin which only seemed to make Charles giggle. With that his chest ached, never did he know his heart could be so full. He loved him so much that it took his breath away.  
His miraculous son. 

Christine smiled brightly at them, her head once again resting on her pillow, so filled with joy that if she could, she would make that moment last forever. 

“See?” She said smugly, she knew her son well.

Unlike her, he was able to see the beauty underneath, to look with his heart rather than his eyes which betrayed. It had taken her awhile to do so.

“That’s your Papa, Charles. Go on, Erik, say hello to your son.” She encouraged.

How did one even speak to their child? He could not just greet him like everyone else, yet all words felt far too simple for such an immaculate being. 

“Hello Charles, I’m your father. I know I’m nowhere near worthy of that title but I promise you that I will try my very best to live up to it. You will be loved and adored unlike any other child before you.” He said softly, pressing his lips lightly to his soft forehead, salty and damp with tears.

Charles’s only greeting was a little giggly gurgle but it felt like a benediction forgiving him of all his sins. To press a kiss to his tiny warm forehead was to press a kiss to a holy relic. 

Christine said nothing, leaving them to their first moment together.  
She had never had her doubts that Erik would be a good father, for despite his madness at the end, he had always been so caring towards her. Maybe that meant there something wrong with her, that was she a bad mother for trusting her baby in the arms of a murderous madman. But he was repentant, had cried and spared two lives and freed them. He had let her go, no matter how much it pained him to. He had let her go because he knew that he had to. That he couldn’t cage her and expect her to love him.

Only then had she accepted him and loved him as he always wanted her to.  
Though even then he sent her away with Raoul because he thought that was what was best for her.  
Never once did he ask her opinion on the matter. 

Erik moved to hand her Charles, who was fussing once again, his sunken cheeks glistening with rivers of tears. 

“He’s just hungry, call Raoul, he’ll bring him to the wet-nurse.” She said with a sad sigh. 

Her condition stopped her from being a mother to Charles, too weakened to even feed him or hold him for any length of time. 

Too dumbstruck to do anything but as she said, Erik went to the door, opening it, only to find the Comte had taken up guard duty. The sneaky boy was probably eavesdropping on their intimate moments.

Jumping when the door opened, Raoul had the right mind to look sheepish and not to remark on his lack of headwear, though he did avert his gaze. 

“Charles requests his lunch.” 

“Yes, right, give him to me.” Raoul said holding his arms out for the baby.

Flimsy little arms. They would be so easy to snap and then he wouldn’t be able to go stealing his son anymore.  
However Charles was hungry and he had no clue where the wet-nurse was hiding, so reluctantly he handed his son over to the boy.

“Don’t worry, Charles, your father will make sure the fop doesn’t draw another breathe if anything happens to you.” He crooned as he handed him over. 

“I’ll take good care of my godson, I promise you, sir.” Raoul said nervously before walking off a little quicker than was normal. 

“Godson?” Erik asked as he turned and closed the door. 

“Yes. Raoul is my good friend and Charles needed someone in case...l thought you were dead and I’m not well so I needed to secure his future.” Christine said beckoning him over to her which he obliged.

It was understandable, he didn’t blame her. He, more than anyone knew how hard it was to survive alone.  
Charles would have been well looked after and raised as a little Lord, without any true title.

“Good friend?” He asked standing by her bedside, not sitting for that would be utterly improper. 

“We didn’t marry, I couldn’t, I was already married to another.” Christine said smiling wistfully. 

The small gold ring on her left hand would have been the only proof. 

“We aren’t married. There was no ceremony and I told you to marry the boy, you silly girl, he’s a good man.” 

They had never signed any papers, or spoken all the necessary words. 

“I agreed to marry you before God for he sees all and knows all, and we did..uhm...consummate our marriage...So yes we are married, we just lack a silly little piece of paper,” She said blushing slightly. 

“He is indeed a good man. Too good a man. I could not go ahead with a marriage that I knew would be only a sham. I am so sick of all the lies and deceit. And he still let me stay and cared for me,”

Raoul, her dearest friend deserved much better than to marry a woman who did not love him as he should be. Who had not be faithful or true. Who loved another.  
He had known even before she herself had. That all her fear and terror had only been at the depth of her emotions. 

“I went and searched you out when I learnt of my condition but the boat was gone and you were nowhere to be found no matter how long I called out to you from the banks of the lake.” She said softly reaching for his hand and tugging him down to sit bedside her. 

Too long she had waited to admit to truth to herself. It had taken too long and he was dead and he would never know how much she loved him.  
And Raoul had been there for her through it all, even without her having to speak, he knew the truth and knew just what to do. It was only right that she named him as Charles’s Godfather.

“I was staying with a friend until I was certain the mob had tired of hunting.” Erik said.

“The Persian?” 

His strange friend who risked his life to help Raoul save her, not that she had truly needed rescuing, yet she didn’t even know his name or how he came to know Erik.  
She had never been in any real danger with him, despite how mad he went. Though she couldn’t say the same for anyone else. 

“Yes, Daroga.” 

“Is that his name?” 

It was a strange name but he was foreign so perhaps it wad common in Persia. Had Erik ever been there? Maybe that was where he met him?  
There was so much of his life which was mystery to her. 

“I suppose so, why would Erik know? Though he is a great nuisance so we shan’t be seeing him again.” 

As cryptic as that was, she did not question it, as the man was his supposed friend and therefore his business.  
Though she would have liked to thank for risking his life for hers.

“However now Charles has you and I want him to be with his father not with his godfather.” 

“But he has you, why would he need me?”

“Erik, my darling,” She said pulling his glove from him and bringing his cold bony hand to her lips, pressing a gentle kiss to his parchment skin. His skin did not taste as it smelt, not of rot or of anything in particular.

For once he did not weep at her meager show of affection, simply sat still fixing her with barely visible eyes. She wouldn’t have been able to deal with it if he had. It had always made her terrible uncomfortable.  
How he had sobbed afterwards! She had pretended to sleep lest she have to deal with it. 

“I am dying, the Doctors have said as much. When I am gone, you will look after our son and raise him with all the love that I know only you are capable of giving.” She said softly, resigned to her fate.

His heart that could have held the entire empire of the world would now no longer have to content itself with but a cellar for it now had the pure love of a child. 

“No! Erik does not allow it!” He exclaimed jumping to his feet, his face contorted in annoyance, every muscle and tendon visible as they twisted to form emotion.

He was meant to die, not her. Never Christine. She was meant to live, a long and happy life, singing and making merry with her boy.  
Nevertheless, life was never fair, it always had a habit of taking the best of people first. Like flowers, it only picked the most beautiful specimens. But he refused to let her join their ranks. She would live, he would make it so. 

“Erik sit down. It is not something you can control. Trust me, I would if I could but I cannot so that is that.” She sighed.

Now that he lived, she wanted nothing more than do the same for the idea of dying had lost its appeal. However it was not as easy as simply deciding not to die. Death came when he pleased and took what he wished, and as much as Erik claimed he was death incarnate, he was nothing more than a man. A great man but a man nonetheless.

Her words seemed to pass right over his head, for he began to rifle through the old brown bag at the bottom of her bed, muttering to himself in what she recognized as latin but the rest might as well have been gibberish. 

Realizing that he was lost to his own little world, she lay her head back and closed her eyes, their short but eventful interaction having stolen all of her energy.  
A quick nap was all that was needed to replenish it. Just a little nap to rest her eyes. She felt so tired and peaceful, a contentedness having filled her now that her Angel was back, his rustling and muttering lulled her off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! 
> 
> [This lovely sketch was an inspiration for this chapter](https://alvadee.tumblr.com/post/120617927853/while-cleaning-up-ive-found-these-sketches-and)
> 
> Please do leave a kudos and any thoughts or suggestions!


End file.
